Last Night
by ArtistKurai
Summary: Jean is having trouble sleeping after finding his best friend's body on the streets of Trost. Based on the song Last Night by Leehom Wang. Written for OtakuShuichi.


A/N: This story/songfic was inspired by Leehom Wang's song Last Night. I recommend you listen to that song as you read this to so you know what the words of the story mean.

Disclaimer: I don't own SnK or Last Night. I'm too broke to own them. They belong to their rightful owners.

The booms of explosions and whizzing of omni-directional mobility gear filled Jean Kirstein's ears, sending shivers and cringes down his spine. Sweat beaded his forehead, but he clutched his blanket more tightly, as if it could fight away the demons plaguing his mind. In the midst of the chaos, a face loomed before him. Tears began to pool in Jean's eyes, which slowly leaked out beneath their painfully clenched lids. A sudden voice filled his ears. Jean...

With a loud and swift intake of breath, Jean burst from under his covers, gasping for air. It took several moments of deep and heavy breathing for him to realize he was in his bunk. The emptiness beside him weighed on him like a 50-meter titan when he realized his best friend wasn't beside him.

"Marco..." the light-haired soldier whispered, his voice nearly inaudible and unheard by the other soldiers sleeping in the barracks. Before his eyes was the image of Marco Bodt lying prone against the side of the building, the right side of his body agonizingly mangled and destroyed.

Jean recalled saying some kind of protest, praying that his friend wasn't really that hurt, praying that he wasn't... He couldn't make himself think the word.

The sight was almost too much for the rookie soldier to bear. Sure, he'd seen much death and destruction, whether at the hands of the merciless titans or the soldiers fighting against said titans, but his friend's massacred body went beyond what could even be considered normal for war.

Upon finding Marco, Jean wanted more than anything to hold his friend close. But because of the shock and horror that had taken over his body, he couldn't move. "Marco, I'm sorry," he whispered into the night.

Images of Marco's death-pale skin flashed before Jean's eyes as he remembered the appearance of his friend's corpse painted in the cruel combination of sunset glow and ominous shadow. His bright brown eyes, once so full of life and happiness, were now dull, sunken, and nearly closed, preventing Jean from fully seeing them.

There were no sounds around him. Despite the medics and surviving soldiers that roamed the streets of the Shingashina District, Jean was alone with Marco. All he could hear in his ears was the sound of his hammering heart as his eyes roved the nightmarish scene.

Tremors shook Jean's body as his eyes focused on Marco's chest, searching for any sign of life. As if to spite his hopes, all was still in the alley. No movement was made by either teenager, no sounds disturbed the air except for the French teen's ragged breathing. Fear gripped him sadistically, just as death held Marco gently.

It took a minute for Jean to hear the voice of the medic that had approached him, asking for Marco's name. Feeling rage rise in his chest, he lashed out at the older woman, demanding to know why his best friend had to die. Unfortunately, the only answer he got was a calm yet angering explanation detailing the inevitable and unfortunate result of war. It was maddening to Jean, not only because it wasn't what he wanted to hear, but also because he knew it was the truth.

As much as he wanted to scream, as much as he wanted to cry, Jean couldn't. The heart-wrenching scene he had stumbled upon held him frozen in place. He wanted to run and embrace his dearest friend, dismissing the blood and gore that would surely cover him. He didn't care what might ruin his clothes or stain his skin; he experienced that every time he took down a titan. All he wanted was to feel the warmth of Marco's skin, the weight of his body in his arms.

How Jean wished to hear his friend's voice again. He wanted to see the spark, the innocence in his eyes. He longed to see the joy on Marco's face, just once more.

"Oh, Marco," Jean sobbed in his bed, bringing his blanket up to hide his tear-streaked face. "Did you ever know how much you mean to me?"

"You're my best friend," said Jean. He tightened his fists around his blanket, wadding up the rough material.

"I never really told you how I truly feel about you," the heartbroken boy whimpered into the silence of the night. "I'm sorry. You're my closest friend, and I should have told you that. I should have told you when I still had the chance."

As he settled back on his mat and turned over to go to sleep, Jean vaguely saw the shape of Marco's pillow, lying cold and unused beside him. He reached over and grabbed it, hugging it to his chest. "I miss you, Marco," he cried. The fabric of the material scratched against his chin, and the movement sent Marco's lingering fragrance up to Jean's nostrils. Tears soon stained the pillow, leaving much darker spots on the dingy green material.

Early the next morning, Jean stood silently in the same alleyway where he'd found Marco's body. He could still see the ghostly image of his dead friend on the ground; it would forever haunt this street for him.

"Marco," Jean said quietly, voice choked with tears. He dropped unceremoniously to his knees, unable to hold up his own weight any longer. "Please come back. I miss you, Marco."

He stayed there, prostrate on the dusty ground, until time for breakfast. Jean knew he wouldn't be able to stomach any food, but he knew he was still expected to show up. With one last lingering gaze, the broken boy burned the image of the empty street into his memory. "I'll never forget you, Marco."


End file.
